Of Bloodlust & Juggalos
by Nepeta Speaks
Summary: You are Lyra Equinox, known by your Trollian handle of divineEquinox. You were murdered by Gamzee Makara, your matesprite, but you have ascended to God Tier. You have returned to find him. You are still in love with him. Shenanigans ensue.


Of Bloodlust and Juggalos

_A Homestuck Fanfiction by Nepeta Speaks. _

**You are Lyra Equinox, known by your Trollian handle of divineEquinox**

**You were murdered by Gamzee Makara, your matesprite, but you have ascended to God Tier**

**You have returned to find him**

**You are still in love with him**

You approach the familiar hive, dressed in your ordinary clothing, though your Sylladex holds your God Tier clothes – a fancy black dress with your symbol on it. Your ordinary clothing feels better now, though – a black shirt with your symbol and a skirt the color of your own blood. It's fitting, really, that you are fixated on the color. So is he. You're certain the few trolls who remember you – or rather, knew you in the first place – would consider you having better things to do than come back and look for him. Especially after what happened.

There had been no slime left, none at all, and he had gone loopy. You had stood in his way, trying to prevent a mass killing spree. It had worked, but you had died in the process. You narrow your eyes, shove your ridiculously long hair out of your face, and breathe. It's time for shit to get real.

You don't bother knocking – why the hell should you? You're God Tier now, and even though he's the most dangerous bastard around, you're not afraid of him. Funny how this mentality got you killed last time.

The stench of Faygo and Sopor Slime assaults your nose as soon as you step through the (kicked down) door. You don't call out to him – you know he's there, in the shadows. You hold back a shiver, glad you removed your cloak from your sylladex moments ago.

"Well well, what have we here?" his voice is gleeful, but has a lazy sort of quality to it. He's high as a fucking kite. Excellent.

"Don't often have visitors, they're all too motherfucking scared of me, my unknown sis." Gamzee isn't talking to you, so much as he is talking to himself. A rush of sadness washes over you – how long has he been alone?

"I'm not unknown," you say, frustrated that he hasn't remembered you yet just from your silhouette. Typical of you, to get all shitty over one small thing.

There's a clunk as he drops whatever he was holding – a club, you think.

"Lyra?" his voice is full of wonder, pain, and something else that makes your blood pusher race. Silent footsteps, and suddenly he's in front of you, dark purple eyes surveying you in wonder.

"_How?" _he breathes, the scent of sopor and faygo wafting over you.

"God Tier," is all you choke out before you do the stupid action of flinging yourself into his arms.

"How the motherfuck?" he asks, holding you at arm's reach, as though you're still as fragile as you were before.

"Apparently dying to stop you from killing the others counts as honourable," you say, though you don't know _how _exactly all this God Tier stuff works.

He smirks. "Yeah," he says, "motherfuckin' honourable."

He mumbles something that sounds like: _motherfucking sober, bastard I fucking killed you_…

You shake your head and before he gets another word in you try to kiss him. Try being the operative word because he's fucking tall and you're tiny. Still, he knows what you want, because he grabs you like you're light as a feather (are there feathers in this world? You're not sure) and kisses you hard. He tastes like Faygo, Sopor, and something else you've never encountered in this world. Some kind of herb. It's intoxicating, this smell, the taste of his mouth on yours. You wonder whether this will be a sort of gentle experience that you only shared once or twice in your prior lifetime.

You're just thinking this when he sinks his sharp teeth into your lower lip, making you gasp. _Oh. _You taste your own blood momentarily, but then his tongue delves into your mouth and the taste vanishes.

"Your blood is so motherfucking sweet," he growls, crushing you against him. Heat pools into your cheeks and between your legs, because he may be the most dangerous bastard out there, but he's fucking gorgeous and you want him. You always want him.

You wind your small, thin fingers through his thick, untamed hair, satisfied to hear a deep, low growl in his throat at your total lack of trying to be gentle. You devour his lips, desperate for his touch again after so long. He seems to grow tired of your demanding act, because he suddenly shoves you against the wall, kicks the door shut, and seals your mouths together in a possessive kiss. You toy, slightly, with the hem of his shirt with your free hand. He smiles against your lips and draws away for a moment to whisper in your ear:

"_I don't think so, my dear Maid," _he growls and you try to hold back a soft moan. There's something infinitely sexy about being called by your title. He tears your skirt off with ease, displaying the brute strength he always tries to hide. This angers you, incites a lust fuelled rage which ends with you successfully removing his shirt. He smirks at you, and within seconds your shirt joins his on the floor, amidst a pile of horns, empty faygo bottles, and a bong. You ignore that final object, unsure of why the object is there or even what it is used for. He lifts you effortlessly into his arms, swings you round bridal style and carries you through the hive to his bedroom. The mattress that filled one corner, surrounded by drapes and curtains, is still there. He sweeps back the drapes dismissively and dumps you onto the mattress.

You scramble to your knees, shameless in your gawking – he smirks, arrogant bastard, and slowly strips himself of his baggy pants. As predicted, he's not wearing underwear. Psychopathic juggalo or not, he's the sexiest motherfucker you've ever come across. You realize he's entirely naked and you're still in your underwear. Oh well.

You eye him for a moment, speculating. Oh, fuck it. You crawl to the edge of the mattress and smirk up at him. You realize he knows what you're planning to do, but it doesn't deter you in the slightest. You take him into your mouth and work your 'magic' until he's mumbling incoherently about miracles. You withdraw from your ministrations and stare at him, marvelling at the color of his skin, such a dark grey, something you've never seen before. It's debatable whether this is because he is the eldest or the highest of blood, but either way it fascinates you. You, who are so pale you're almost white. He pushes you back onto the mattress and unclips your bra. It goes flying off out of the little nest, swiftly followed by your panties, which, regrettably, are ripped.

He practically pounces on you, biting and sucking at your breasts, a highly human and intimate gesture unfamiliar to most of your kind. You pull him away so you can kiss him again, sharp little kisses up his neck that leave blood marks. You feel his hard arousal at your entrance.

"No buckets," you say.

"None," he confirms, "Just like before."

It is forbidden, or rather, highly taboo, to have sex without a bucket for the resulting genetic material. This is a thing you and Gamzee have never much paid attention to; he is the highest of High Bloods on land, and you are the lowest of low bloods. Any combination of your genetics would be frowned upon. You prefer to take your chances that you might end up 'conceiving' a trollgrub together. He enters you smoothly, hard and fast.

"Now what?" you ask stupidly, gazing up into his dark eyes. He smiles, a real smile beneath the makeup.

"Now, sweet Lyra, I fuck you til you _scream_," his words send waves of pleasure up your spine, doubled tenfold when he begins to move, deep, slow thrusts that you feel with every nerve in your body.

"_Ohhhhhh_," the low moan escapes before you can stop it. He laughs and moves slower, his impressive length throbbing deep inside you.

"_Uuuhhhhhh_," he growls, wrapping his arms around you, revelling in the sweet, forbidden sensations as much as you are. You spread your legs wide, wrap them around his waist and pull him closer, moaning.

"_Gam…. Unghhh_…"

He bites your neck sharply. You yelp in surprise and he smiles and does it again.

"_Wrong name,_" he snarls in your ear, rolling his hips into yours slowly, torturously, until you're in danger of screaming.

"_oh," _you moan, _"oh god!_"

He smiles, eyes glazed over from pleasure and drugs.

"Better," he whispers, "Much better. I'm the motherfucking Messiahs. _Both _of them, and don't you forget it."

"I won't," you whisper, and then you muster all your strength to roll you over so you're straddling him. If he's annoyed by this, he doesn't show it, in fact he starts laughing. You giggle along with him but when you begin to move, rocking up and down on his length, both of your laughter turns to moans, soprano and bass mingling together as you reach your peaks. You feel him raking claws down your back and you scratch his chest, smiling when you draw blood. This tips him over the edge, you feel him contract deep inside of you, feel him spill his seed deep inside your body, and then you collapse on top of him, moaning his full title.

After, he holds you against him, both of you slick with sweat but neither of you caring. You pry yourself from his arms and he watches you, as though afraid you'll disappear, until you return to the little nest with a can of Faygo and a pie.

He grins at you and sits up lazily, takes your proferred offerings, and then pats the space beside him. You climb back onto the mattress and curl up beside him, stark naked. No need for blankets – Gamzee's a fucking furnace.

He mumbles about fantastic matesprites and pie and wicked elixir for a while then settles down beside you, enveloping you in his arms. You sleep.

Xxxxxx

"Oy, fuckass! You in here?" the sound of someone yelling jolts you awake. Beside you, Gamzee sits up lazily.

"Yeah, bro? What the motherfuck do you motherfucking want?" Gamzee calls.

The drapes are flung open and a guy wearing a shirt with the Cancer symbol on it stares at the pair of you. Oops. You realize you're naked and reach for a blanket or something. Gamzee, however, stretches languidly and reaches for a cigarette.

"Well. This is a, uh, bad time…" says the new guy, looking mightily embarrassed.

"What's so bad about it, bro?" says Gamzee, taking a long drag of the cigarette. You resist the urge to laugh. Karkat – the other guy – rolls his eyes.

"Who even is that?" he asks and points at you.

"Huh? Whoa, bro, don't get all up and rude in my matesprite's face, motherfucker," says Gamzee lazily, but there's a tinge of anger to his tone.

"Matesprite, huh?" Karkat says, then holds up his hands in a none-of-my-business gesture and then calls, "the others want a meeting soon. So.. when you're both, uh, ready… could you join us?"

"Sure," says Gamzee, and gives a lazy sort of wave to Karkat as he absconds, a look a pure embarrassment upon his face. He turns to you, smirking.

"We have a little time before they're expecting us… Round two?" he suggests, a sexy look on his face. In reply you pounce on him, straddle his waist, and devour his lips in a ravenous kiss.


End file.
